Smoke

I see him,
sitting in the corner of the room;
his endless eyes open,
with dark shadows falling beneath them;
his paper-thin face smoothed out,
expressionless;
frail was his body,
hunched, bent, warped;
his legs were like branches
of a tree long dead;
and around them, his arms,
his hands digging into the flesh;
and he was still,
still, like he was dead.
All around him,
was ash, broken devices,
and pieces of wood,
wood that music once made
and instrument that named him.
And the smoke,
the smoke hovered around him like shadows,
and wedged between his skeleton fingers,
his lifeline, burning and glowing, 
sucking the life out him slowly.
His lips quivered, then trembled endlessly,
his eyes grew red, and tears appeared.
He cried,
softly at first.
Then a scream echoed through the room,
which seemed to go on forever.
He felt it,
the pain,
the loss,
the sorrow,
and he realised what he had become.